


Like Rations and Taxes (and Forks)

by joinedunderprotest



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Gendry lives an Arya Appreciation lifestyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 16:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18876502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinedunderprotest/pseuds/joinedunderprotest
Summary: Gendry isn't ready to be Lord of Storm's End. Hereallyisn't ready for what he finds when he gets there.





	Like Rations and Taxes (and Forks)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post, which has taken on a life of its own: [X](https://arsenicandfinelace.tumblr.com/post/184876374210/s8-wishlist-49)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@arsenicandfinelace](http://arsenicandfinelace.tumblr.com/).

_I can’t do this_. The words had been looping in his mind since the Neck. _I really, really can’t. Not without her._

Whose stupid idea had it been to make him a Lord?

 _Oh, right._ The Dragon Queen. Rumour flew swifter than ravens, and word had reached him and his band of weary, limping followers about the sack of King’s Landing. Mad words about the Queen destroying Flea Bottom, the Dothraki trampling the red cloaks, the Unsullied spearing the Golden Company like pigs in a spit, the Northmen baying for blood, the Mad Queen and her sisterfucking Kingslayer dying beneath the Red Keep.

Not a word about Arya, though, and it felt like he hadn’t taken a full breath since the first whispers reached him.

He’d never been a holy man – not for the Old Gods or the New, certainly not for that Red Cunt – so he wasn’t sure if the gods would listen to him. A proper holy man might get down on his knees, light some candles, and speak some special prayers to invoke their favour. A proper holy man wouldn’t be sat on a horse, staring unseeing at the road ahead and trying not to weep, begging with the all the small, rough words he knew.

_Not Arya. Please not Arya. She’s your hero. She’s your champion. You fucked her life so she could kill the Night King for you. You don’t owe me shit, but you owe her. She doesn’t have to be with me. She doesn’t have to come near me ever again. But you can’t kill her, not with dragons in Flea Bottom. Please, please, please, not Arya._

If he had had better words to offer her, would she have stayed North? If the Queen hadn’t legitimised him and he’d been able to go through with his plan of finding her and thanking her for her heroism by pleasuring her until she screamed, would she have been content to stay? Had he driven her to this?

He tried to tell himself that it was inevitable. Arya was determined to go to King’s Landing. She wouldn’t have stayed for anyone in the world.

But she might have let him come with her. He knew Flea Bottom better than her. If there was anywhere that was safe from dragon fire, it was him who’d find it, and he’d have kept her safe there. Even if it was some rathole only big enough for one, he’d have found it for her. He had owed her his life since she was twelve years old and lying to the gold cloaks. He would’ve died for her if he could.

But no. He fucked it, she ran away, and now she was ash and he was bound for a castle he’d never seen to take on a job he couldn’t do.

And what a castle it was. He took it in as it appeared over the horizon. He’d seen two castles in his life, the Red Keep and Winterfell. They were different in style, the Keep tall and spiky, Winterfell widespread and rounded, but they were a fuckton of big and little towers, all piled together. Storm’s End appeared to be only one massive tower rising from the walls on the edge of a cliff.

It looked like nothing so much as a fat stone cock, he decided. He wondered if that was on purpose.

He was going to die in that castle, he realised, feeling faintly sick. Whether his bannermen slew him on the morrow or he lived to be an old man surrounded by the children and grandchildren they’d force him to sire, he would spend the rest of his life as master of that stupid cock castle and everyone in it.

_Arya could have helped me run it. She’s so clever, so good. She would have been the best Lady, and she’d have taught me to be a good Lord to these people._

He drew in a sharp, shallow breath. The last thing he needed was to greet his new people with tears on his face like some helpless boy.

He rode up to the gates, feeling very small and foolish. _Hello, King Robert fucked my mother once in a tavern to make me and I’d like a castle now._

“Who comes?” called down a watchman.

Long Tom, a tall, grizzled Northman who’d professed a desire never to see snow again, called back, “Lord Gendry of House Baratheon, come to claim his seat. Your maester will have had news of his coming.”

The watchman drew back, and there was a long minute of silence.

“Do you suppose they’ll start shooting at us?” Gendry asked, not sure if he was joking or not.

“Could be, could be,” Long Tom said, squinting at the massive curtain wall. “I don’t suppose being legitimised by the Dragon Queen will win you much favour these days. But look at the bright side, my lord. They might just tar and feather us.”

“It’s good to have hope,” muttered Gendry.

Finally, with a horrible, heavy creaking, the drawbridge came down towards him. There were some guards standing in the entrance, but also a middle-aged man and a young lad, both clad in fine, dark fabrics instead of armour, and an old maester. All three rushed to Gendry, bowing deeply before him.

“My lord,” greeted the man.

“My lord,” echoed the lad and the maester.

They stayed bent, and after an awkward moment Gendry realise he was supposed to gesture for them to stand back up again.

“Good to meet you, sers,” he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t about to shit himself. “Who are you?”

“Ser Gilbert Farring, my lord, castellan of Storm’s End. This is Lord Elwood Meadows, my second-in-command, and Maester Jurne. We welcome you and your men.”

“Good. That’s,” Gendry managed, uncertain what a lord should say in these circumstances, “that’s good.”

“Do you think we might be welcomed _inside?_ ” asked Long Tom behind him. “It’s been a long ride and I should like to piss somewhere other than a shrub at the side of the road.”

Lord Elwood blanched a little at this, but Ser Gilbert only nodded, businesslike.

“Of course, come through. Forgive me, my lord, if your grounds are not as grand as you might have expected.”

It was on the tip of Gendry’s tongue to tell him, perhaps disastrously, that a roof not currently leaking and a footpath not laden with human shit were plenty grand for him, but as he stepped through the gates he was struck dumb.

The courtyard of Storm’s End was a city of tents. Not fine colourful tents as popped up whenever a tourney came to King’s Landing. Hasty tents, made of sturdy canvas sails or threadbare blankets. The people shuffling and bustling about were smallfolk, some in clearly borrowed, ill-fitting clothes, some in singed rags. Many were injured, and most had a haunted look in their eyes. But they all carried on, calling out to each other or sitting quietly to whittle or weave.

“Are these Stormlanders?” Gendry asked, stunned, as his party made its way through the narrow lanes between tents towards the keep.

“Refugees,” answered Ser Gilbert. “From King’s Landing. The first wave came two days ago, and since then more have been trickling in as word spread. The Stormlands are closest to the Crownlands, and no one else has opened their gates to them.”

“If they displease you, my lord,” piped in Lord Elwood, “we can turn them out. We understand it is an imposition on you.”

“Gods no!” Gendry barked, glaring at the boy. “Look at them. If we send them away, they’ll be dead by morning. We’re not kicking them out for being unsightly.”

Maester Jurne nodded approvingly. “Very good of you. It is reassuring to see our new lord is so concerned for his people.”

Gendry scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I haven’t done anything. It was you lot who opened the gates to them.”

Ser Gilbert lifted one shoulder. “I was of the opinion that we should allow them to camp outside the castle until you arrived to decide what to do with them, but the Lady did command they be brought in and provided for, and as she’s to be mistress of Storm’s End soon enough, it seemed unwise to challenge her authority.”

“You did the right thing,” Gendry said, looking over the sea of the downtrodden. “They need feeding and cari- the Lady?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Lord Elwood. “She arrived two days ago at the head of them, and since then she has been making arrangements for them herself.”

“What lady, though? What mistress of Storm’s End?”

The castellan and his men looked at each other. “Your betrothed, of course. She is in the Round Hall now, attending to them. She said you would support whatever orders she gave as soon as you arrived.”

Gendry’s chest clenched. He couldn’t breathe. He could only run for the doors to the keep, faster than he’d ever run for help in the frozen north. It was all a pair of surprised guards could do to throw open the doors before their new Lord crashed into them.

Inside it was chaos, a dense crowd shouting at each other. He elbowed his way through, not sure where he was heading. He could only guess that he was looking for the centre of this storm.

One voice cut through the clamour, and it sucked the air from his lungs.

“That’s enough. We’ll get nothing done with all of you shouting at each other. Timon, you have the floor.”

He heard some creaking old man speaking of the allocation of bandages, but he paid it no heed. That other voice, that had been a woman’s voice, and that woman was-

“Arya.”

The name fell from his lips as he made his way to the front of the crowd. There she was. Alive.

She sat in a big wooden chair with her bare feet propped up on a big wooden table, showing off the bare skin of her calves, her black breeches rolled up to her knees. It surely couldn’t be a ladylike way to sit, but he’d be damned if she didn’t look powerful and dangerous, sat in front of hundreds of men in such an insolent pose, and even as blissful reassurance overwhelmed him, he felt a spike of lust for her.

She turned her eyes on him, and he saw a something soft and wonderful cross her face before her she-wolf look settled back into place. Without looking away, she held up one hand, and Timon fell silent. She dropped her legs to the ground and stood.

“Apologies, but this must wait a moment. My lord has finally arrived.”

Gendry’s jaw dropped to hear her call him that, but she only held out one hand. He stepped forward and around the table, taking her hand in his as he reached her.

“Hello,” she said quietly, and he’d never heard anything so wonderful in his life.

She squeezed his hand once, and then turned back to the crowd.

“Gendry Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands,” she introduced, “by whose grace Storm’s End is opened to the survivors of the sack.”

“Seven bless you,” called someone from the back, and then everyone said it too.

“And bless the Lady Arya, too!” This they said louder, and Gendry couldn’t stop the stupid smile from spreading across his face.

He nodded to the people. “Thank you for the welcome. But it seems I interrupted something important. Let’s get back to it.”

He took a seat next to Arya. Her chair was bigger and grander, but she was so small that she only came up to his eyeline as he peeked at her when she sat back down. She stared straight ahead at her petitioner, but beneath the table she still held his hand, and when he stroked hers with his thumb, she laced their fingers together.

He did his best to listen to every man and woman who came before them for the better part of two hours, as they spoke of tent space and rations and looting by night, but it overwhelmed him. He’d never been responsible for much more than himself and his forge or the slow-witted Hot Pie, and these new responsibilities were dizzying and intricate. Arya, though, listened intently and answered thoughtfully, and when she asked for clarification or repeated someone’s claims in simple terms, he knew she was doing it for his benefit. Gods, she was magnificent. He’d known she’d be like this when he’d asked her to marry him.

She would, wouldn’t she? She might have come to Storm’s End because there was nowhere else to take these people, but she hadn’t needed to introduce herself as his betrothed, nor to hold his hand like she did. She was here for him. Even if she wasn’t, even if she’d lied to get through the gates, she was _here_ , and he’d get back on his knees and beg her to stay if that was what it took.

When Arya finally rose to her feet, Gendry followed suit. He nodded along as she called audiences to a close for the evening, and glared murderously when some of the gathered tried to argue. The castellan and his men came up to the high table as the petitioners began to trickle out.

“Nicely handled once again, my lady,” praised Maester Jurne. “My lord, I am sorry you were pulled into this so quickly. You have had a hard ride. No doubt you would have preferred to rest after your journey.”

“This needed doing,” said Gendry.

Gilbert allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “You may look like Robert, but you sound more like Stannis, if you don’t mind my saying,”

That sounded like it was meant to be a compliment, but Gendry set his jaw as he remembered the unsmiling man who’d stolen his blood to kill Arya’s brother. Elwood noticed and coughed.

“Now that Lord Baratheon has arrived, perhaps we might move my lady’s things to a new room.”

Gendry frowned. “Why would Arya need moving?”

Lord Elwood’s cheeks pinked. “Lady Arya has been quite insistent, these past two nights, about sleeping in the lord’s chamber. But now that you have arrived, of course, those rooms are meant for you.”

“No.”

“My lady?” stammered the maester.

“I’m not moving. I intend to sleep there again tonight.”

Gilbert tried to wheedle, which Gendry could have told him was a stupid plan. “But, my lady, if you sleep in the lord’s chamber tonight, where will Lord Baratheon stay?”

“He can sleep there too.”

Gendry enjoyed the horror on the three men’s faces almost as much as he enjoyed the heated, challenging look Arya sent him.

“My- my- my lady!” cried Elwood. “You cannot share a bed before you are married. You will be ruined!”

An old woman who had been dawdling nearby, clearly eavesdropping, butted in.

“What business is it of yours, then?” she demanded in her rancid old Flea Bottom accent. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, minding where m’lady rests her head. She can sleep where she likes!”

“Not before she’s married,” Ser Gilbert replied stoutly.

“Oh, betrothed’s as good as wed,” interrupted a matronly woman. “There aren’t half the couples in King’s Landing who haven’t gone to bed before they’ve gone before the gods.”

“And that’s in times of peace,” offered a man on crutches. “We’re at war, we are, and maidenheads are in short supply.”

“Nothing could ruin Lady Arya,” loyally insisted a young boy who perhaps did not understand exactly what was being discussed. “She’s a hero.”

Gendry smiled at the boy and ruffled his hair, receiving a toothy smile in return.

“I thank you all for your support,” said Arya, looking amused. “And now I am very tired, and I’m sure my lord is too. He should have dinner sent up and a hot bath drawn for him in his rooms. I will join him.”

And with that, Arya swept out of the room, dragging the very willing Gendry behind her. She had the lay of the castle, it seemed, and led him through corridors and up stairs, until they came to a fine set of rooms. Gendry barely had time to spot the wide windows and wider bed before he found himself pushed up against the door, Arya’s hot mouth insistent on his.

“You’re here,” he panted between kisses, tangling one hand in her hair and sliding the other to cup her arse as she climbed him like a tree. “You’re really here. I thought I’d never see you again.”

At that, Arya planted a hard kiss on him, pulling back abruptly. “Talk later,” she ordered, rocking against him. “Fuck now.”

And that was that.

When they were finished and they’d dragged themselves onto the bed, naked but for the breeches still hanging around one of Arya’s ankles, he pulled her close and kissed her slower, softer, frantic need giving way to bone-melting relief.

He rested his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes for a second as she stroked her knuckles up and down his spine.

“What happened?” he asked at last, afraid to ruin things by talking but unable to keep quiet.

“To King’s Landing or to me,” she asked, eyes downcast, her hand faltering and then starting again.

“You. Both. But you especially. I heard it was destroyed. Were you with your brother?”

She flinched. “No. I don’t know what happened to Jon. I hear he’s alive, but I don’t know what he’s done about … this. Daenerys.”

She drew in a shaky breath, and he kissed the crown of her head.

“It’s true, then? Daenerys burnt the city? Is it all gone?”

“Much of it.”

She told him. About the Hound, and the bells, and the little girl with the wooden horse in her hand. About the bloody white horse standing in the rubble, and fleeing the city, and finding what was left of the survivors outside what was left of the walls. They’d been desperate and afraid enough to follow anyone on a horse who looked important, she said, and when she’d told them she was going to the Stormlands, they’d gone with her. Privately, Gendry thought they recognised someone good and brave in Arya, but she didn’t need praise right now. She only needed his arms around her. He held for a good long while, until he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Would you have come if not for them?” He felt Arya bury her face in his neck at the question. “Or would you have gone back to Winterfell?”

He wanted her here. He wanted to hold her tight and keep her forever. But he wouldn’t force her to sell herself in exchange for shelter for her refugees. He’d take care of them even if she left, though he’d struggle without her deft touch for these things.

“You can, you know,” he continued.  “I won’t blame you. You said you didn’t want to be a lady.”

“I said I couldn’t be a lady,” she corrected from her spot in the crook of his neck. “I can’t wear dresses, or embroider, or wait by the fire while you go off to war, like Sansa or my mother.”

He pulled back, astonished. “Did you think I wanted that from you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I’ve never known any other kind of lady.”

“What about that tiny bear lady? The one who died taking out a giant? You think she did any of those things?”

“Lyanna Mormont wasn’t married. Neither was her mother. Maege Mormont never took a husband so that she’d never have a man ordering her around.”

“When have I _ever_ ordered you around? I haven’t once convinced you of anything in my life. The only time I managed to stop you doing something was when I tackled you so you wouldn’t try to kill the Hound, and even then you fought like a devil.”

Arya sat up, looking down at her lap. “I was afraid, alright? I thought I’d end up rotting in some castle, growing to hate you for wanting me to be something I wasn’t. I thought I’d waste my life here.”

Fear and hope warred in his belly. “But you don’t think that anymore?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “I was going run here, just me, and then leave again when I could.”

That hurt, and he knew she could see that.

“But then when all those people were following me, expecting me to lead them to safety, I realised that I was their Lady. Not because I was pretty or well-spoken. Because I was taking care of them. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Someone to help you take care of things. Like rations and taxes. And forks.”

He breathed a laugh as the hope began to overtake the fear. “Yes. That’s what I wanted. I can’t do this alone. And you’re the smartest, best woman I know. Even if I weren’t in love with you, I’d still want smartarsed little Arry here to tell me what I’m doing wrong and how to fix it.”

Arya laid back down, stretching the length of her small body on top of him. “Alright.”

“Alright?” he repeated, breath hitching.

“I’m here. I won’t wear dresses, I want my own seat the same size as your lord’s chair and a new spear, and our first child will inherit the Stormlands whether it’s a boy or a girl. And if that’s acceptable to you, then I’ll stay here and never leave.”

He pictured Arya in fine clothes, twirling another weapon he made her. Arya sitting next to him to receive petitioners. Arya teaching their child to be the next Lord or Lady of Storm’s End.

“All that,” he promised. “And anything else.”

“Alright, then. I’ll be your lady.”


End file.
